A reflection on intellectual humility vs the epistemic arrogance dominating public rhetoric.
Somewhere between the hallowed cloisters of Magdalen and the heady rhetoric of Parliament lies a forgotten virtue—one I dare say is more needed now than ever: intellectual humility. It is not the humility of a soft handshake and bowed head, but the more muscular sort—the kind that dares to admit: “I may be wrong.”
Let us begin, with a simple observation. Human beings are not so much truth-seekers as they are certainty-collectors. We construct our little fortresses of opinion with great care—using bricks of upbringing, the mortar of ideology, and the occasional windowpane of experience—and from behind these defenses, we peer out at the world, certain of what we see. The trouble, of course, is that we are often wrong. Often, spectacularly so. Yet we cling to our certainties like shipwrecked sailors to flotsam—not because they are seaworthy, but because they are familiar and comfortable. These certainties breed a kind of indolence that becomes petrifying.
I once heard a student, newly emboldened by first-year philosophy, declare: “I know I know nothing.” He said it with such unearned confidence that I nearly wept for poor Socrates, who had uttered that phrase not with swagger but with trembling awe. Intellectual humility is not a performance—it is a posture. It begins not in the lecture hall but in the soul.
When was the last time you changed your mind? Not merely modified it, but truly changed it—abandoned a dearly held belief in the face of unsettling truth? If it has been a while, perhaps it is not for lack of occasion, but lack of courage. For humility, though it wears a modest face, is a most courageous thing.
Indeed, the cultivation of intellectual humility is the first and most essential act in building healthy thinking communities. It clears the air, you see. Without it, conversation becomes competitive theatre, with interlocutors trading quips like sabres. With it, dialogue becomes a shared pilgrimage—two pilgrims walking side by side, uncertain of the destination but comforted by each other’s company.
The real marvel is how much more interesting life becomes when one surrenders the need to be right. One begins to listen—not merely to respond, but to understand. One hears the tremble in another’s voice, the silence behind their words, and senses that even opposing views carry fragments of the sacred.
Of course, humility does not mean passivity. One must still think critically, reason well, and defend the good. But it means doing so without arrogance, without the self-righteous fervour that turns conversation into combat. It means holding our convictions lightly, as one might hold a flame in the palm: enough to warm, but not to burn.
The danger of a lack of humility is not merely theoretical. History bears grim witness: inquisitions, purges, puritanical regimes—all fueled by the unshakeable certainty of the righteous. Better, I think, to be uncertain and kind than certain and cruel.
Now, how might we cultivate this elusive quality? Begin with curiosity. Ask more questions than we answer. Read widely and listen broadly, especially to those whose voices discomforts us. Practice the quiet discipline of silence. And most of all, delight in being surprised. It is the hallmark of an open mind.
And here, dear friends, let me extend to us all a gentle but earnest invitation. In our next conversation—be it over supper, in committee, or within our own minds—approach with the humility of a gardener, not the pride of a conqueror. Sow questions like seeds. Water others’ insights with attention. And allow, in the quiet soil of shared inquiry, something altogether new to grow.
Let us build together a community not of perfect answers, but of honest seekers. For in such soil, truth—though never fully grasped—may just begin to blossom.
